


rester, c'est exister, mais voyager, c'est vivre

by scocoaphobia



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 5 + 1 Fic, 5 Things, 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Eventual Smut, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Laurette - Freeform, M/M, Modern Era, NSFW, Romantic Fluff, and the fact that there are hardly any fics of just the two of them is sad, i don't know what else to tag ???, i fucking love this ship honestly, ok i guess that's enough tags rip, so i'll take it upon myself to write these, so much fluff in this one tbh, they're just so cute together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 02:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10652865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scocoaphobia/pseuds/scocoaphobia
Summary: The entire trip was silly, senseless, and—to put it simply—rather dumb.In which John Laurens takes a trip to France and finds out that there's more to the country than just sightseeing.Alternatively,5 times John met Gilbert in France, and that one time Gilbert met John in America.





	rester, c'est exister, mais voyager, c'est vivre

1)

 

The entire trip was silly, senseless, and—to put it simply—rather dumb. His friends had convinced him that traveling to a French city other than Paris would be great, beautiful, relaxing even—specifically in the French countryside. But John Laurens had always been a country boy at heart—prior to moving to New York, the man had grown up in South Carolina. It was stupid of him to get his friends to persuade him to travel to the lesser-known places in France, specifically Haute-Loire—which, by silly coincidence, was also in the south, though in a country that was anything but his own.

For the longest time, the man had been wandering aimlessly around the countryside, miles and miles of nothing but open fields and the occasional animals and farmhouses entering his view. He knew he should’ve checked the map, at least—but he was just too goddamned stubborn to consult it. Besides, it wasn’t as if he could use it anymore, not now anyway—there was barely any signal out here, and he left his physical map in the place he was staying at.

He mentally slapped himself.  
Good job, Laurens. 

It was nearing the evening, and try as hard as he might to retrace his footsteps, John only seemed to be getting more and more lost. A sigh escaped his lips—almost at the same time that a French Foxhound appeared in his sights and scuttled its way over to him. At first, there was only a sense of shock that came to the American—was the dog going to attack him, or no? But when the dog approached him with absolutely no malice—and with a wagging tail, nonetheless—a smile made its way up the man’s lips.

At least, even in this aggravating situation, he had somehow made a friend.

John was patting the friendly dog’s head, when he heard a series of jagged footsteps coming from behind him.

“George!”

George? 

John quickly lifted his head—and was greeted by arguably the best sight the entire day.

"Désolé, monsieur, c'est mon chien. Je l'ai cherché toute la journée - je m'excuse s'il vous a dérangé." *****   


The American simply raised an eyebrow, a clearly confused look settling upon his features. He knew French, yes, along with a few other languages—but it was rusty due to a long time of having had not spoken a word of it in the longest time. Yet another stupid thing of him to do, really.

A few minutes of silenced passed, before it dawned upon the Frenchman that John didn’t seem to understand him.

“Sorry, sorry,” the man spoke. There was a little hint of an accent in his voice, but otherwise, he seemed to be fluent in John’s mother tongue.  
“You are a tourist, yes? Pardon, I did not know—“

A few more moments of silenced passed, half of which comprised of the Frenchman panting—clearly, he seemed so exhausted just looking for his dog— and half of which comprised of Laurens staring at the man.  
It was rude, possibly, staring for far too long at a man whom he had just met, but what was he to do? The man was beautiful, and there was no denying it—with the way his jet-black set of curls were tightly tied behind his head, revealing his toned facial features. His beauty didn’t seem to stop just at his face, too—the man was tall, dark-skinned, and fairly well-built—and, as silly as it sounded, with the way the setting sun loomed behind him, it almost looked as if he were a gift from the gods himself.  
No, scratch that—the man was a god himself.

The Frenchman’s amber eyes finally averted from his dog and raised back up at Lauren’s own. There was a smile on the man’s face, and a laugh in his tone.  
“I am assuming you are lost,” the man began, raising an eyebrow, to which John sheepishly nodded in return.

“I—uh, yeah, I’m lost,” he admitted. “Can’t find my way out. Can you help me get back to town?”

The taller man shook his head, and beckoned John to follow him.

“This way, please.”

 

2)

 

Two days has passed since he had gotten lost—and was, thankfully, saved by a rather handsome stranger. From that day on, Laurens decided to finally bring his map with him wherever he went, and from that day on, he had hardly gotten lost.

One really stupid thing that he had overlooked, however, was asking for the stranger’s name.

It wasn’t that he was expecting that their paths would cross once more, really—he was simply on holiday, after all, and whatever connections he might possibly make in this trip would surely be lost once he boarded on a plane back to America.  
But part of him silently hoped that, before he left the town, he would be able to see him again.

What he didn’t know was that, while visiting a local bar on a whim, he’d be able to see the handsome, kind stranger once more.

It was a small bar, really—almost like a pub, with the locals gathering round the bar, with what he assumed was a traditional French song blasting in the background by a live band. Everyone in the place seemed to know each other, which mostly left John sitting on his own in a corner. Not that he minded, really—the least he wanted was getting it on with old farmers.

A laugh erupted in the midst of all the ruckus—an all too familiar laugh.

“Lafayette!”

The word—or was it a name?—echoed in the place. Whoever this Lafayette was, he seemed to be very popular amongst the crowd.

He ordered another beer and was about to down it in one gulp, when a voice rang in his ears.

“Ah, monsieur tourist!”

John turned around from his seat, bottle still meeting his lips in what was like a cold, glassy kiss, when a familiar face made its way towards him.

It was the stranger from two days ago.

“It’s you,” he said breathlessly, almost unable to believe his luck.

The man ordered the exact same beer that he had, smiling at the waiter, and answering a few questions and jokes from the other patrons, before directing his attention back to John.  
“It’s me,” he replied, with an amused grin curling up his lips. “You were looking for me, hm?”  
The truth of that fact was embarrassing to admit, so John simply faked a frown and finished the rest of his beer. After all, he hardly knew the man—how could he possibly say that he already liked him?

The waiter arrived with the beer that the Frenchman had ordered—and, to John’s surprise, he handed it to him.  
“It is—how do you say it—on me,” he told him, playfully winking at him. “And do not worry—I always can get another one.”

The man’s semi-broken English was endearing enough in itself, he had to admit—and, left without much of a choice, John accepted the beer and took a swig as the other man ordered another one for himself.

“So,” the Frenchman began, trying to speak louder. “I did not catch your name.”

“I didn’t throw it,” John replied rather casually, which earned a chuckle from the other.

“Really, monsieur, what is your name?” the man asked once more, taking a drink from his bottle of beer. “It would be a pity leaving me hanging. Especially with a beautiful stranger such as yourself…” Yet another playful wink, which caused heat to rise to the American’s cheeks.

“John. Laurens,” he replied, waving a hand in faux dismissal. “I’m guessing you’re that Lafayette guy? You seem pretty popular ‘round here.”

“Ah, yes, Lafayette,” the Frenchman laughed. “That is the name—or title, rather—the people here call me. My name is long, but call me Gilbert.”

“Gilbert…” John repeated, testing the name on his lips. “Anything else that’s long that I should be aware of?”  
Gilbert didn’t seem to catch the jest amidst the ruckus of the crowd—besides, his attention already diverted from John to the song that seemed to be playing.

“Do you want to dance?” Gil asked, placing his now empty bottle on top of the table. John hesitated at first, raising an eyebrow, before taking hold of the other man’s hand and allowed himself to be led to the middle of the bar.

It was crowded, and the noise was more lively as they neared the centre, but John didn’t seem to mind—Gilbert, despite his charming personality, seemed to be unsteady on his own two feet, causing the American to lead the two of them across the room. Laughter erupted from all sides of the small place, and everyone seemed to be cheering the two of them on, along with the rest of the people who were dancing alongside them.

They danced together for a fairly long time, a long time after the first song finished and other songs resonated in the air, long after the other dancers left and it was only the two of them left in the middle of the bar, long after the other patrons had begun leaving, and certainly long after both their bodies ached and they had to leave the bar.

It was late at night when they left, and Lafayette had offered to bring him to his hotel.

“Tonight was fun,” John began, still all smiles and grins. “I had so much fun tonight. Thank you, Gil.”

Gilbert, who seemed to be amused by the new nickname, only nodded his head in return. “I am glad you think so,” he replied.

“You’re sure you don’t wanna come in?” John asked, as they neared the hotel.

“No, no, I do not want to be a bother,” the other man replied, shaking his head. “It is late, after all, I do not want to keep you up.”

John frowned for a moment, drunken eyes staring at the taller man for a few moments as they stood there at the entrance, before he leaned closer to him, stood on his tiptoes, and pressed his lips against his.  
It was sloppy and drunken, yes, but despite Gilbert’s initial shock, he returned the kiss, even going so far as to deepen the kiss by pulling the smaller man closer to him.

But it wasn’t long, unfortunately— and John parted almost immediately, eyes widening in shock and waving a hand in embarrassment.  
“M’sorry,” he quickly apologised, to which Lafayette simply laughed. “Don’t know what came to me. M’sorry, really.”

“No. Don’t be,” the Frenchman replied. “I do not mind doing that again. Especially with you.”

John simply returned the laughter, shaking his head. He took a marker from his pocket and took hold of Lafayette’s wrist, scribbling a series of numbers on his skin.

“Call me,” he said, before turning his back and entered his hotel.

Gilbert stood there for a few more minutes, relishing in the moment, before taking his leave, just as the rain began to pour.

 

3)

 

“I am sorry for not calling,” Gilbert apologised, as he helped John carry out his luggage from the hotel. The Frenchman showed up out of the blue at his hotel’s lobby—and, had he not looked around the reception for once, he would’ve missed him.

“I was wondering where you were,” John replied, in a somewhat-grumbling tone. “You left me hanging, Gil. No contact for three days, and you only showed up just now, when I’m about to leave.” He paused, throwing his backpack across his shoulders. “You’re lucky I saw you, you’re lucky I didn’t leave yet.”

Lafayette’s frown only deepened, his forehead creasing.  
“It was raining when you left me that night,” he reasoned out, dragging the other’s suitcase behind him. “The number you have written was washed out. When I arrived in my home, it was nothing but black smudge.”

John audibly sighed, pursing his lips.

“I still apologise, John. I am sorry.”

“Fine, fine.”

They arrived at the train station in less than thirty minutes, with Lafayette offering to drive him there.  
Or, well, offered to bring him there, at least—Lafayette owned a fairly expensive car, and had his own personal driver bring them to the station, which made John wonder just exactly who Gilbert was. He had assumed that Gil was nothing more than an overly-friendly boy, who seemed to be well-loved in the town due to his personality.

He had wanted to ask him, but decided against it—after all, it would’ve sounded so rude.

“Here, my number,” Lafayette said, offering him a small scrap of paper. “I think it is better if you keep it and call me instead.”

John stood there for a few moments, carrying all his luggage with him, before dropping down all his belongings and taking the paper from the other’s hands.

“I’ll miss you,” he began, quickly embracing the Frenchman, sobbing and sniffling against the crook of the taller man’s neck. “I’ll miss you, so much. Thank you for making me enjoy my time here.”

Lafayette pulled away from the hug momentarily, wiping away whatever tears were spilling from John’s eyes, before leaning in for a kiss.  
“I never forget you, John,” he replied, his voice a low whisper. “I will remember you, always. I hope you will not forget me, too. Call me, okay?”  
“Okay,” the American answered, giving him one last kiss. “I’ll call you. I’ll miss you too, Gil.”

John then gathered his belongings, and was about to enter the train station, but decided to look one last time behind him.  
“Gil, another thing—“ he began, before he realised that Gilbert had already driven away.

“…I love you.”

 

4)

 

Of course, John couldn’t possibly leave France, without visiting Paris.  
It wasn’t his first time—he had visited the city once, when he was small—but everything seemed so far different back then, than it was now.

Though the sights of the city was beautiful beyond words, his thoughts always seemed to drift from Paris back to Chavaniac. It wasn’t that he preferred the countryside to the city—each had its own charms, after all, but what Paris could never have would be Gilbert.

It was a silly thought, really—falling in love with a stranger just as fast as that. But all throughout the time that he spent in the city, he couldn’t help but imagine how it would’ve felt like had Gilbert been there with him.

Many times, whether waking up or trying to sleep, he would stare at his phone screen, at the contact with the man’s number and name. Many times, he was tempted to press call, to wait until the person from the other side would accept his call and he would once more drown in the deep voice he so genuinely missed, and he would allow himself to picture Gil speaking, his accent lilting, his mouth moving, just begging for John to kiss.

He shook his head.  
Four days left before he returned to America, and he couldn’t possibly waste his holiday pining after a stranger he had just met, a stranger who possibly saw him as nothing more than a casual affair, a stranger he was sure would forget him in a month, a stranger who he was certain he’d forget after some time.

He forced himself to get up, and scrolled through his schedule to check his itinerary for the day.  
The Ponts des Arts, walking through the Champs-Élysées, and, finally, to the Eiffel Tower.

Ponts des Arts… it would’ve been nice, if Gil and he were indeed a couple. They would’ve written their names on a lock, placed it on the bridge, and tossed the key over the river.  
Unfortunately, that would never be the case.

Once he arrived to the bridge, however, he wondered if fate was cruel to him, wanting to show him the person he knew he could never have, or if fate was on his side, wanting the two of them to meet every time.

“John?”

The American perked up once he heard his voice, coming from none other than Gilbert himself.

And to think that the two of them met in the middle of the bridge, too—

“Gil? I thought you were—“  
“In my hometown?” Gil finished for him, mirroring the exact look of confusion that was on John’s face. “I leave for my work. I only visit Chavaniac sometimes. But, you—what are you doing here, still? I thought you leave for—for your country, already.”

“Mhm,” John replied, pursing his lips. “Decided to tour around Paris, still. Your hometown’s pretty, but I still like the city, y’know?”

An amused smile crept up the Frenchman’s face.  
“We always see each other in unexpected times,” he said. “But let me tour you around the city, also. I know it as much as I know Chavaniac.”

At the end of the day, they had visited far more places than what John initially had in mind—Gilbert took him to all the niche places in the city, all the spots that were barely mentioned in travel websites, and some of Gil’s favourite places to eat.

They, of course, still ended the day at the Eiffel Tower. John couldn’t help but stare wide-eyed as Paris was spread out from underneath them, and in that moment he realised how it was called the city of lights. Many times, he was tempted to just ask Gil to kiss him, right then and there—but the place was crowded with many other tourists, there was hardly enough room for the two of them to freely move.

For dinner, Lafayette brought him to one of his favourite restaurants—expensive, and clearly fancy, but the waiters and the other patrons didn’t seem to mind at all that the pair wore nothing but a casual attire.

“So,” John began, after they had both finished ordering their meals. “Who exactly are you?”

“Why do you want to know?” Gil answered in response. “I am Gilbert. Or you have forgotten my name?”

“No, no, it’s not—“ John quickly replied, waving his hands. “That’s not— That isn’t what I meant, Gil. I just— I thought people liked you in the bar in Chavaniac ‘cause, y’know—you’re friendly with everyone.”

Lafayette chuckled and shook his head.  
“I am, I suppose.”

“But, well—you have, uh, a car. A crazy expensive car? And people didn’t look twice when we entered this place dressed in jeans? Besides, and I’m sorry if this sounds strange, but I’ve seen the way people look at you around the city. Almost like they admire you or something.”

“What do you think I am then, John?” Gilbert asked in reply. “Is this how Americans treat their date?”

John flushed at the term, but shook his head.  
“No, no. I’m just genuinely curious about you, and I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable. Swear to God, Gil, I didn’t mean to.”

Lafayette sighed, leaned back into his seat, before shaking his head.  
“Just someone people know well. It does not matter, John. Do not ask me any more, please—I want to enjoy this time I have with you.”

For the rest of the evening, John seemed to remain quiet about it, even though his curiosity was about to burst. But he wanted to keep Gil by his side—as selfish as it sounded, he didn’t want to lose this man, even if they had just met a week ago.

Almost as if mirroring the events that had happened in Chavaniac, Gilbert offered to walk John back to his hotel, despite the fact that the two of them had grown rather tipsy due to the amount of wine they had both drunk.

“Come with me, please,” John asked, once they had reached the hotel.

“You know that I cannot, John,” Gil replied with a hint of sadness in his voice. “Even if I want to. I cannot.”

“Please, Gil,” John repeated, tugging at the other man’s shirt. “Don’t go. Please.”

Lafayette sighed, before entering the establishment alongside John.

The Frenchman didn’t want to intrude—he didn’t want to simply traipse in John’s hotel room and stay the night.

But all thoughts of modesty left both their heads once the door was closed behind them, and John pressed his lips against his.  
Surprise initially came upon him, but it wasn’t long until he pulled him close, and pushed the smaller man against the wall, their kiss deepening, their mouths both hungry for more.

But Gil, with the last sense of decency he could possibly muster, parted from his lips, causing a confused, and somewhat hurt look in the other’s eyes.

“You are sure you want this, John?” he asked. “With me, I mean.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” the other replied. “Of course I fucking do.”

Barely even a second passed before the two of them were onto each other again, Gil pressing John against the wall and leaving a trail of kisses down his neck, to which John audibly whimpered, his hands snaking around the other’s neck.  
Clothes were shed down the hall of the ridiculously large hotel room, and by the time they had reached the bed, only their underwear was what remained clinging onto their skin.

Gil pushed John down on the mattress, lips still hungrily kissing and nipping and sucking at the other’s now bare skin, leaving a series of marks on the other’s body. John wriggled beneath him, one arm wrapped around the Frenchman’s back, and the other hand desperately trying to pull down his boxers, before Gil decided to make things easier for the two of them and slid it off his legs, before taking off his own.

John impatiently thrusted his hips up, both their bare cocks touching, earning a noise from Gil.

“We cannot do this, just like this,” Lafayette whispered, pushing himself off the bed and making his way towards the bedside table.  
“Condom. John, do you have a condom?”

“Oh, fuck that,” John hissed, begging for Laf to go back to him. “It doesn’t matter. Please, please, Gil, just— just take me.”

Hesitantly, Gilbert pressed himself against John once more, diving his hips low to rub his cock against his. John gritted his teeth and planted his nails firmly against the other’s back, leaving small, crescent-shaped marks.  
“God, Gil, just— fucking take me,” he breathed, opening a closed eye to stare at the man above him.

Lafayette complied—he lifted himself up a little, licked two of his fingers, before inserting one into John’s entrance. John immediately gasped, yelling out Gil’s name as he felt Gil’s finger pump into him. It wasn’t soon before one finger grew into two, and finally three, stretching him out just enough for Lafayette to enter him.

The Frenchman steadied himself from above him, situating himself beneath his thighs and placing one leg on his shoulder, before he slowly pressed himself into the other. A loud gasp escaped the American’s lips, his chest pounding and breaths jagged and short as the other continued to push himself inside of him, until he could feel his entire length deep inside him.

Lafayette pulled back, slowly but steadily, before pushing himself back inside him, a bit faster this time.  
As they progressed, their movements became faster, with Gil finding John’s prostate and managing to hit it every time he thrusted. John managed to find it in him to push himself down, against Gil’s cock, whenever he thrusted.

“Gil, fuck,” John mumbled between moans. “I’m fucking close. God.”

“Not yet, my love,” Gil whispered back. Though he was teetering close to his orgasm, he held himself back—at least, for a few more moments.  
“Wait until I am finished,” he continued, pressing his warm lips against the other’s forehead. “Then you can come. Do it for me, please?”  
“Fine,” John retorted, somewhat impatiently. “Fine, fuck.”

Gil planted another soft kiss on his forehead, before picking up from where he had left, pushing himself as deep as he could within John. Finally, unable to hold it in any longer, Lafayette released inside him, his hot, sticky come filling him.  
It wasn’t long until the burning hot sensation in his ass caused John to release his own load, spilling all over his stomach.

Gilbert pecked him briefly on the cheek, before leaving him momentarily to get towels from the bathroom. He wiped the two of them clean, before collapsing on the space beside the smaller man, peppering his face with more soft, gentle kisses.

“That was good,” John whispered against him as they pressed their foreheads against each other. “But I’m tired.”

“Sleep,” Gil replied, pulling the sheets over them before wrapping John in his arms. “I will join you in a few moments. Good night, my love.”

When he awoke, Lafayette was half-expecting that John would still be there, cradled against his arms, sleeping peacefully.

But John wasn’t there—John was already seated upright on the space beside him, quickly scrolling through his phone with his eyebrows furrowed.  
Noticing that Gil was already awake, he stared at him with an unamused frown.

“I woke up to a fuck ton of notifications on Twitter, Gil,” he began, causing a confused look to spring up on the Frenchman’s face.  
“Gilbert du Motier… of all the things, I didn’t know you’d be a fucking marquis.”

 

5) 

 

“I feel like we go through this before,” Gilbert said. “But this does not stop it from hurting. John, do you really need to leave?”

“You know I have to,” John replied, obviously choking back whatever tears threatened to spill from his face. “I can’t stay here, Gil. I’m only here for a quick vacation.”

“I know that,” Gil replied. “I still wish it was not the case. I enjoy having you around, very much. Even if we met only for two weeks, you filled my heart with so much love.”

John laughed and playfully punched him in the shoulder, to which Gil feigned a pained look.  
“You’re sappy,” he told him. The ache in his chest only grew—even if it were only a few days, those few days seemed to be stretched out into small pieces of an infinity, one that he wouldn’t hesitate on reliving.

“I will miss you, John,” the Frenchman whispered, pulling him close. “I hope that you do not forget me.”

“Are you kidding me? I would never.”

The two of them finally pulled apart, and John turned his back against Lafayette, carrying his luggage with him.

“John—wait.”

John turned around for the last time, raising a curious eyebrow. What else could Gil possibly want?

Gilbert took off the jacket that he was wearing and put it on John’s shoulders.

“Gil— I can’t take this. It’s yours.”

“Shh. Take it. And when we meet again, one day, I will know it is you.”

God, Gil was being fucking sappy again—but nevertheless, it never failed to bring a smile to John’s lips.  
A few tears escaped his eyes, to which he immediately wiped away, before snuggling into Gil’s jacket. It smelled strongly of perfume, but there was a hint of wine and lavender.

“Good bye, John,” Gil said, kissing him one last time. “Be careful on your way home.”

John Laurens waved his hand, looking back one last time, before taking all his belongings, leaving the lone figure behind him.

 

+1 )

 

A year has passed, but John doubted that he could ever forget his holiday in France.  
He was scrolling through old photographs on his private Facebook account, having been notified by the memories app. Most the pictures were of the scenery of both Chavaniac and Paris, but every now and then an all-too familiar figure would appear.

Where was Gilbert now, he wondered? He hadn’t had time to check his Twitter, and even then, Gil didn’t seem to update much on his social media, either. The last he had heard from him was that he was travelling to another country—to where, he didn’t know.  
He had probably forgotten about him now—after all, so many things could happen within a year, and though John was still left pining after a man he was sure he could never have, he was more than certain that Gilbert would’ve met someone whom he genuinely loved, one who wasn’t someone he just knew after a few days together.

He grabbed his coffee and exited the shop, and walked out through the busy, crowded streets of New York City. It wasn’t cold, but he insisted on wearing the jacket that Gilbert had given him for that day— even though Gil’s scent had long disappeared, he still found himself wearing it every now and then, no matter what occasion it was.

A stranger had collided into him, nearly making him spill his coffee.  
God, the streets of New York sure was hell.

“Watch it—“ he snapped, before he realised who had collided into him.

“Gil,” he began, eyes widening in surprise.

“John,” Gil replied, his unmistakably trademark wide smile all over his features.

“Shit, I’m sorry—“ John immediately apologised, but his words were cut short by the familiar sensation of warm lips against his.

“No more words, my love,” Gil whispered, pulling him in for another kiss. “I am glad to meet you again.”

“Me too,” he replied, shaking his head with laughter. “Who would’ve known, huh?”

“I missed you, John.”

“God, me too, Gil.”

“I hope you have not met another man to love,” Gil said, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. “Though I do not blame you if you do. I do not mind.”

“No, fuck no,” he replied. “I couldn’t find someone like you, even if I tried.”

And just like that, the smile on Lafayette’s face quickly returned.

“Join me for dinner?”

“Of course. I’ll tour you around the city first,” he said, a sudden rush of excitement filling him.  
“We have so much catching up to do, Gil. It’s been a year, I fucking missed you.”

“ ‘Catching up’,” Gil chuckled. “That is a new term for asking me to sleep with you?”

John laughed, playfully punching his arm—just as he did, one year ago.  
“You know it.”

**Author's Note:**

>  ***** Translation = " Sorry, monsieur, that is my dog. I’ve been looking for him the entire day— I apologise if he has bothered you. "
> 
> I've been listening to 'Galway Girl' by Ed Sheeran too much.  
> It's related because most this fic is inspired by the film "P.S. I Love You", except that, of course, nobody dies. And yes, I am aware that the 'Galway Girl' used in this film is different than Ed Sheeran's song, but still.  
> My mind has an odd way of working.
> 
> I've also been wanting to write something for my OTP for the longest time, but couldn't find anything to do. But, well, here I am now! Hoo boy.
> 
> Also, George, the dog—  
> He's named after George Washington, because we all know how much historically, Laf admired Washington.  
> So, _cur non?_
> 
> I honest to God hope that more people enjoyed this pairing, because this pairing will be the death of me, and the lack of content for the two of them is killing me.
> 
> Please leave comments and kudos, I suppose.  
> My tumblr is s-cocoaphobia.  
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
